Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 87(@200wpm)___ 70(@250wpm)___ 58(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 87(@200wpm)___ 70(@250wpm)___ 58(@300wpm)
3
ROMEO
Well, I’m here. Now what? Mr. Tweed’s fuming out the ears and ready to tear my head off. But his incredible temper doesn’t deter the Barbie-faced beauty. She can’t pick her jaw off the table, let alone chase me away.
Judging by the fact that she hasn’t told me to piss off, I’m doing something right.
“Pillow talk?” she says, and it’s like heaven’s angels sing straight into my brain. “It’s an interesting way to introduce yourself, Mr. Whitaker.”
My instincts tell me to stay focused on Mr. Tweed, but I don’t. First rule in this life? Always look out for number one. Second rule goes hand in hand with the first—never take your eyes off the enemy. But something tells me Tweed isn’t going to cause trouble. He’s far more likely to run off and cry into his pocket square rather than enact any of his half-assed threats.
“Why bother with the boring shit when we can get straight to the fun?” I ask.
The aching throb resonating from my manhood is a sour reminder that one look from across the room wasn’t enough. Because it never will be enough. I’m staring at her clearly now, and I still can’t find an end to her beauty.
Massive tits test the limits of her dress while her waist curves in and descends to the perfect peach-shaped bubble she’s sitting on. The only contrast to her snow-white skin and bleached blonde hair are the two sparkling pools of blue staring back at me.
If I were a painter, I’d immortalize this moment, plastering infinite copies across my apartment walls so I never have to look away from her again.
There’s gotta be something special about her if I’m this worked up without having heard her name.
“The boring stuff is just as important.” She crinkles her nose and lets out a soft, squeaking giggle. “If you ask me, it’s more important.”
“I see. You’d rather have me worshiping you from between your legs than jumping straight to the main event.” I let the words trail off before finishing my sentence. “I’ll have to make sure I’ve got a snorkel handy. Once I’m down there, I won’t be coming up. Not even for air.”
Redness paints her pale face, and she tries to cover it up with a flat palm. I shake my head, ordering no without a need to say it. She will not hide away from me. I won’t stand for it.
She listens like the good little girl she is.
“You don’t even know my name,” she says, kicking one leg over the other. I peer down, on the verge of praying to see what’s beneath her black sequined dress.
Maybe it’s to break up the mounting tension. More likely, my haphazard glance is to see what’s waiting for me. I guess the sight of her milky thighs as the dress rides higher will have to do.
“I’ll have plenty of time to learn it.” It takes every ounce of willpower I have to turn away. Not that looking into her eyes is any easier than up her dress. They’re too innocent for a mean bastard like me. “That said, it might be hard when you’re screaming my name instead of your own.”
I’m laying it on thick, but I can’t stop myself. Every part of me screams that this is the one chance I’m going to get with someone this pure. I will not waste it, not even if it means putting my position with the Lion’s Den in jeopardy.
“Enough of this bullshit,” Mr. Tweed announces from his side of the table. “Jess, let’s get out of here.”
“And now I know your name.” I wink.
“So you do. The real question is, what are you going to do with it?” Jess doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to run away with Mr. Tweed. In fact, his attempt to get her to follow has only firmed her round ass in her chair.
“Can’t do much with just a name. Might need a number to go with it.” Better. Suave charm instead of cocky.
“Oh, I don’t think that would be wise, Mr. Whitaker. Martin might have an aneurysm.” Jess turns to him.
I do the same. Like her, various shades of crimson burn over his cheeks. Funny how fury and desire have such a similar reaction in people.
“Looks to me like he’s already having one.”
She giggles again, and this one hurls Mr. Tweed over the edge.
“Fine, stay with him then, but I will tell your father about this,” he roars, slamming double fists onto the table. It rattles beneath the impact, knocking over the empty glasses strewn atop it.
I grab the only one with any content left before it spills over Jess as Mr. Tweed storms off.
“Well now, looks like I saved you from having soaked thighs,” I say, setting the glass back down. I cut myself off before throwing another terrible one-liner about how she’d have to take the dress off because of it, so why not do it anyway?